


Scars (On the Same Ground)

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [26]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:11:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: It is a strange sort of unity she feels like this, alone, body bearing witness to what her mind would not.  Perhaps, if she spent long enough looking in her mirror, she could see her past selves, or the marks of them, but never so intimately as she feels them, as she knows them when she traces every ridge and pocket left upon her skin by a life too harshly lived.Or,Ana touches upon her past, and touches herself.





	Scars (On the Same Ground)

**Author's Note:**

> i am here today because i am gay,

Identity is not the stable thing many people make it out to be, Ana knows; in different times, in different places, in different company, one may find oneself shifting, changing, cutting away and grafting on different cultural signifiers and mannerisms to fit the situation at hand. Such is not unusual, in small amounts, or even in large ones, over time, but when such becomes a survival mechanism, when one learns to shed one's own self, one's own skin, just so that one might _endure_ another day—that is when it becomes a problem. Ana should know; she has spent the better part of a lifetime doing so.

When she looks at her own body now, after sixty years of hard living, she is not sure she recognizes the woman in the mirror—and why should she? After a life of protecting others, of sacrificing what of herself was necessary so that those she cared for might live, there is little enough left of the woman she once was.

Where, now, is the woman who dreamed of saving the world, of a peaceful solution to the world's problems?

(She was lost when Ana enlisted, for the sake of her family legacy, aged nineteen—and further lost when Ana first killed, and learned what it is that she knows now, that death is the only thing in this world approaching a resolution, a finality.)

Where, now, is the young officer, a cocky sharpshooter certain that no one, but _no one_ in the world could outshoot her, at the top of her game?

(She had no place, once the war truly began, and the game of setting records and friendly competition were supplanted by a need to _survive,_ by a truth which now she knows: it is not enough to be the best, when even the best can fail, when even the best is _not good enough_.)

Where, now, is the woman who would have died for her country, whose beret, bearing on it her rank as an officer, was never out of reach?

(She was abandoned for something greater the day Ana learned that she was pregnant—some things, she decided that day, are greater than duty to country.)

Where, now, is the mother, who would have cast away everything she previously loved and defined herself by for the sake of her child?

(She forced herself to transform that identity, to reapply the maternal instinct to protect to _everyone_ , rather than just Fareeha, and looking back she wonders if she lost her daughter then, if that was the beginning of the long, slow path to ruin.)

Where, now, is the hero, who, with the rest of the first Overwatch Strike team, saved the world, and the future with it?

(She faded away, in the years after the war, was chipped away at with every mistake she and Jack made, every dent in the legacy of Overwatch they caused, every notch she made on her rifle—if she still had it, she might yet see it, might see evidence of what she did, might have proof that woman once existed, but it was lost with her eye, and now there is no proof that woman ever existed.)

Where, now, is the protector, the guardian, who would have done anything in her power to protect the men and women who served with and under her?

(She grew tired, old and tired, as she watched the people she saved destroy one another, time and again, and now, looking back, she is surprised that she lasted as long as she did, in circumstances such as those.)

Where, now, is the friend, who would have let herself be torn in two, if it could have healed the rift growing between her friends?

(She could no longer bear the compulsion to rend herself in two for them, could no longer watch as they tore themselves in apart, and her with them, and now she is beholden to neither, knows she cannot give any more of herself than she has already given, for now there is little enough remaining to give.)

Where, now, is martyr, who was ready to allow herself to die for the cause, to die for Overwatch, who thought her death might change something, within the organization?

(She failed, for Ana might have _wanted_ death, then, the finality of it, the release, but after a lifetime of always committing to everything, to never hesitating, she could no longer pull the trigger, and so here she stands, today, scarred, changed, but very much alive.)

Where, now, is the ghost, who would have watched over them all, if only she were corporeal enough to effect a change?

(She, too, had to die, eventually, the same as everyone else Ana has ever been, for the freedom of death, the protection of it, might have saved Ana from pain, but it could not save those whom she cared about, and that is the only constant, in Ana's life—that she will always give whatever of herself is left to save those to whom she is loyal.)

No, when Ana sees herself in the mirror, now, in her new-old quarters at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, looking with her one remaining eye (sharp as ever), she recognizes nothing of the many women she has been, sees none of the many roles she has filled, can find no hint of the many parts of herself long since discarded. A younger version of herself would surely be repulsed, to see the way she has changed—not because she is older, for that was inevitable, and not because of her scars, which are difficult to make out in such low lighting, but because she has drifted so far from what she once was, what she once believed in, what she once stood for. At eighteen, she could never have imagined the woman the next forty-two years would make her, would have flinched from it, would not have been able to look herself in her lone remaining eye.

But the Ana of today is not repulsed, does not feel revulsion, to see how she has changed; her past has brought her here, but it is just that: passed. She cannot change it, and that which Ana cannot change, she knows well enough now to accept—better that, than to torture herself wishing to do the impossible, better that than to push herself again to the point of breaking, as she did in the final days of Overwatch. Yes, she has changed, and yes, she has lost a good many things, but she carries within her still all that she once was, and even if she cannot _see_ the selves of the past, even if no one else could, that does not mean they are not still there. When she tries, she can feel them still.

With that, she turns from the mirror—there is nothing else for her to see, there.

What marks her past has left on her cannot be so easily seen as they can be felt, when her hands trace her own skin, when sensation serves to ground her being in the present, in _this_ body, in this time, in this place. What marks her past has left on her are more than just skin deep, have seeped through her bones and into the very core of her being. What marks her past has left on her are not easy things to bear, but she has no alternative, and, in truth, she will gladly bear them, for just a chance to make amends, to do _better,_ this time, than she did in the past. If she discards her past, then she can never rectify it, so it is better, therefore, to learn to bear it, to carry it within herself and to learn from it, no matter how difficult such may be.

She is at peace—or so she tells herself, when the hand she trails down her sternum pauses, for a moment, at the feeling of the raised scar there, a scar earned in defense of a country which has since branded her a criminal, where even now she has a price on her head.  It is a scar, it no longer hurts her, the flesh long since knitted together over it, different, but whole.  It is a scar, but if she thinks for long enough she imagines she can still feel the pain.

(Even when she left Overwatch, when she tried to forget everything, the scars remained on her skin, and she felt them, she _felt_ them, whenever she touched herself; no matter where she is, they will come with her.)

Her hand drags lower, to the skin of her stomach, and here, too, there are marks from her life, are reminders of the woman she was, is, will continue to be.  Where once there was definition, and taut skin, a layer of fat hangs over her muscles (no weaker than before, in truth, but harder to see, certainly), but it is not what catches her attention.  Instead, she is drawn to the puckering of her skin where stretch marks have formed, lines which forever mark her as _mother._

(Even when she did not have Fareeha, she had _had_ her, and that could never be erased, could never be taken from her; always, she carries with her proof that she carried her daughter, always, she carries within her the time when she was a mother, and wanted to be nothing else.)

It is a strange sort of unity she feels like this, alone, body bearing witness to what her mind would not.  Perhaps, if she spent long enough looking in her mirror, she could see her past selves, or the marks of them, but never so _intimately_ as she feels them, as she knows them when she traces every ridge and pocket left upon her skin by a life too harshly lived.

(Or perhaps, just harshly enough.  Perhaps it feels better to touch herself roughly, and to think on herself in the same manner.  Perhaps she is undeserving of something kinder—or, far simpler, she is undesiring.)

Since she left Overwatch, she has not allowed another to touch her—not like this—for it would leave her too vulnerable, too exposed, her scars (her past) on display for another to see. What would they think if they saw the burn scar on the upper inside of her left thigh, a patch of pallid, over-smooth flesh? Would they _know,_ as she does, when she touches it, of what she gave to protect those who mattered most to her? Would they feel sympathy, anger, curiosity?

She does not know, but she _does_ know this: no answer could be the right one. No answer could be this: that she feels no shame, not any longer, nor pride, nor anger, feels nothing but _oneness_ , a connection between her past self and her present.

It is not _right,_ what she feels, but it is not _wrong,_ either. It simply is.

When she touches the scar, large and shining, she does not think about what caused it, does not think about the shape of it, only feels it and recalls the heady rush of adrenaline that came after. _I survived I survived I survived._

(She survived, and she will again, if need be. The woman who earned that scar is not dead, she is _here,_ at least in part _._ )

But this is also true: when she touches the scar she does not _feel_ anything, the tissue dead and insensitive—but if she mirrors the motion, runs a hand up the inside of her opposite thigh, ghosting with her fingers the outline of a scar that does not belong there, if she moves just so, her breath catches a bit in her throat, and she shivers.

Her other hand can feel the rise of her chest beneath it, and she moves it to rest on one breast. When she pinches and rolls her nipple between her fingers she does not think of the way the shape of her breasts have changed with age, how they hang differently than once they did—it was a change so slow she did not notice as it was happening, and does not care about now, for the feeling has not changed at all, the sensation of teasing them is the same as it ever was, is still enough to pull a gasp from her the same way it did forty years ago.

(She is different, and she is the same. Although she may not look—to herself, or to the world—like the woman she has been, she still feels the same things, still wants the same way.)

As she toys with herself, she bites her own lip, not because she worries about making a sound (her training as a soldier, as a sniper, has taught her to keep better control of herself than that), but because she enjoys the spark of pain, because when she does so she remembers the ghosts of lovers past, of the men and women who did the same to her in years past.

When she kneads her breast, she does it in the same rhythm of a man she has not seen in twenty-seven years, and as she ghosts around her center, drawing teasing shapes just outside where she would like to touch most, she does so in the same way the first woman she ever loved did.

(They are gone now, dead and gone, but they linger here, in her muscle memory, even when she will not allow herself to think on them in the day to day.)

Teasingly, she brushes her fingers over her labia and clit, just light enough to feel, and not with nearly enough pressure to satisfy herself. Although no one is watching, she arches her hips into it, for show, like she would for a lover if they were there. Muscle memory.

That same memory compels her to arch her neck, to bare her throat, in a way that could almost be submissive were it not for the defiant glare that always accompanies it, when she is with another. _Try and take me, if you dare_ , she urges them—and no one ever does, not truly, not in any way that matters.

(But she and time have taken. Have taken and taken and taken until there is little enough left to her but herself, and little, even, of that.)

When she enters herself it is not gentle, is a sudden and sure motion; she does not want gentleness, and if one asked she might even claim she has never wanted it (though that would be a lie). It stings a bit, burns for a moment, but she does not give herself time to adjust, knows by now that she will quickly enough. Better, then, not to wait, to throw herself into the pursuit of pleasure, knowing that all things are fleeting.

And they prove so, when moments later pain turns to pleasure and she can feel it building, building, coiling tighter inside her.

(Once, she told someone, it was not so different to line up for a kill. To wait, pressure mounting, higher and higher, to hold one's breath, thighs trying not to tremble from staying in one place for so long, feeling the anticipation, and then the thrill, the rush of adrenaline, as the trigger is pulled and, suddenly, it ends. A part of her now thinks the comparison grotesque, but the rest cannot deny it.)

Like this, no part of her feels old, even if she feels her age in everything she does. It is simply a part of her, like her heart which now hammers in her chest, like her past which can be heard in the names which tumble off her lips, like training which compels her to stifle the trembling of her thighs.

When she was younger, this took time—and sometimes, she still takes time, lingers on sensations, when she feels she has earned the right—but now she knows herself well enough to make this as quick (or drawn out) as she likes. From the way her hips roll, from the urge to draw in on herself, to focus on nothing but the pleasure at her core, she knows she is close, and she could slow down, could tease herself a bit longer, deny herself this release so the next will be bigger, better, but the pleasures in life are few enough, and fleeting, so why bother?

Instead, she rolls her hips into the motion of her fingers, fists her spare hand in the sheets, and thinks of nothing, no one, but herself, and what it is she feels in the moment.

(In many parts of her life, feeling things is dangerous, has caused her to do things which she regrets, but this is not one of them, and so she does not deny herself a bit of emotion as she does this.)

Her trigger finger aches a little as she moves, stiff as she curls it inside herself, but she no longer thinks of the continuity between the past and the present, thinks of nothing but the way it feels inside of her, how the motion elicits a gasp and brings her ever closer to the edge. The twinge of pain is lost in the pleasure it elicits—or, perhaps, enhances it.

For a moment more, she waits at the precipice, at the intersection of _so close_ and _not enough_ , a moment of stillness, and then she presses her thumb, roughly to her clit, (does not think of pulling a trigger, does not think, _does not think_ ) and comes, hips jerking and thighs closing around her hand, her one good eye seeing everything, and nothing at all.

And then, as everything does, it passes, like so many things before.

She wipes her sticky fingers off with a tissue on her bedside table (not there _only_ for that purpose, but certainly convenient for it), considers showering, but puts it off until morning, and rebraids the sections of her hair which came loose to prevent them tangling while she sleeps.

No need to linger on that which is passed.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway. there u have... smtg. and also confirmation that in this verse ana is bi... just tucked in there. bc she is, in my mind and in my heart.
> 
> also in re: the last line passed/past idk if u actually are meant to pronounce them differently but i dont so there are a couple passed/past double meanings in there w/e
> 
> title is from 1d's A.M.
> 
> lmk ur thoughts if u have em! 
> 
> <3 rory


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